


Tonight (I’m Fucking You)

by canistakahari



Series: Tony Stark gets everywhere first [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, Companionable Snark, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Matchmaking, Time Travel, Transporter Malfunction, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony meets a hot, intriguing stranger at a fundraiser. Obviously he takes him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight (I’m Fucking You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gadgetorious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gadgetorious/gifts).



> I don’t even know, guys. This is for gadgetorious. I don’t remember why, though. It’s been THAT LONG. This is set between Iron Man and Iron Man 2 and post-Star Trek XI. Please suspend your disbelief when it comes to flaky science and complete lack of real plot. Just remember that Tony Stark built an arc reactor in a cave with a box of scraps. Oh, and he also created a new element. Yeah. Don't even talk to me about flaky science.

The guy standing by the bar is a  _total fox_.   
  
Said fox is also glaring at every single person that has the gall to get within five feet of him, sending any potential suitors skittering nervously away in less than two seconds flat and successfully maintaining an impermeable bubble of personal space.  
  
Tony watches a pretty young woman execute a reverse one-eighty when Scowly McScowlerson levels a devastating frown her way. Then he grabs Pepper by the elbow when she clicks through Tony’s field of vision on five-inch patent-leather Louboutin spikes and temporarily blocks his Hot Guy reconnaissance.  
  
“Potts,” he hisses, pulling her out of the way into a conspiratorial huddle before gesturing towards the guy with his chin. “ _Potts_.”  
  
“Right here, Tony,” says Pepper mildly. “Lower the volume.”  
  
“I am the king of discretion,” says Tony, ignoring the circle of people that have been hovering around him like vultures for the past hour, hopefully straining their ears for a stray morsel of decaying gossip-flavoured carrion flesh. “Now put your thinking cap on. Who is that fine specimen of well-tailored ass standing over there stripping paint off the walls with his laser of doom stare?”  
  
Pepper extracts her Blackberry from some impossible breaking-the-laws-of-nature-as-we-speak pocket on her slinky, deep blue dress, and starts scrolling through a list of guests. She squints at the tiny accompanying photo and says, in a doubtful voice, “...Humphrey Hopenhower.”  
  
“What?” demands Tony, delighted. He briefly fights Pepper for the Blackberry, peering at the guest list. “You’ve got a photo? What the hell?”  
  
“We take them at the door,” says Pepper. “Do you ever pay attention when I talk? It’s a security—”  
  
“This photo does not do him justice,” interrupts Tony. “You know why? He’s wearing  _clothes_. Humphrey? Really? That cannot be his real name. You just can’t moan  _Humphrey_  in bed and expect sexy results. What an unfortunate situation of utter misfortune. Who is he? I want him. I want to suck on his earlobes. Potts, he—”  
  
“—Is leaving,” cuts in Pepper dispassionately. “Give me back my phone, Tony. Don’t you dare leave with it.”  
  
Tony tosses up the Blackberry and bounces it gently back to Pepper with his elbow, mostly just to prompt her to make the extra-special squeak of horror that only makes an appearance when she thinks something important and expensive is about to be destroyed. She catches it deftly and glowers at him. “Where did he go? Did you see?”  
  
Pepper rolls her eyes. “To the balcony, I think. You’re no longer allowed to touch my things.”  
  
“I can buy you a hundred Blackberries,” Tony says absently, looking past cummerbund-wearing servers and women dripping diamonds. “Your eagle-eyes do not lie,” he adds, watching dark-haired and fuckable slip through one of the side entrances that lead onto the open balconies. “Don’t wait up.”  
  
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” says Pepper flatly.  
  
“That,” says Tony smartly, “Vastly limits my options.”  
  
Pepper makes a face. “I quit forever.”  
  
Tony waves her off and sets off to follow his potential new conquest, finding him at the far end of the balcony, leaning up against the railing, long legs crossed at the ankle. He’s clutching some sort of flip phone in his hand, but he’s holding it away from his mouth like he’s got it on speaker and is growling at it in a low, hurried voice.  
  
“—if you’re hearing this, Jim,  _get me out of here_. I’m at a party, in a nicer suit than I wore to my own damn wedding, I got no clue what I’m doing, and I think there’s something interfering with the subspace transceiver, which means you probably  _aren’t_  getting this and I’m just wasting my breath, as ever—”  
  
He abruptly stops talking the moment he spots Tony, his jaw tightening as he flips the phone closed and slips it into his jacket pocket.  
  
“Hi,” says Tony, grinning wide and charming.  
  
“Hi,” says the man tersely, his body language tense and guarded. “I’ll just get out of your way—”  
  
“You’re not in my way,” says Tony, smoothly ingratiating himself directly into the man’s intended trajectory. “Humphrey, was it? Can I call you Humph?”  
  
“What?” says the man, eyes widening, clearly caught off guard.  _Aha_. “I don’t know what you’re—”  
  
“Faking a name to get into a party… A bit juvenile, but still a stunt that could involve the police.”  
  
The expression on the man’s face moves across the emotional spectrum from confused to panicked. “Now listen here—”  
  
“Tony Stark,” says Tony, offering his hand. To his surprise, the other man actually takes it, though it seems like more of a polite, instinctive reaction than any real desire to touch Tony. Oh well. That can be remedied.  
  
The reciprocal gesture also has a bonus effect. “Leonard McCoy,” replies the man promptly, and then flinches and scowls. “Goddammit.”  
  
“Leonard McCoy!” says Tony. “Leonard! Len? Leo? Leonardoooo!”  
  
McCoy tugs his hand out of Tony’s grip, his gaze shifting from side to side, looking for exits. “Tony Stark?” he echoes absently, backing away a little and then bumping into the railing. “Wait, Tony  _Stark_? As in, this is your party?”  
  
“Where are you from?” asks Tony. “Kentucky? Georgia? That little hint of accent is like  _honey_.”  
  
Hazel eyes fix to his in complete bewilderment. “You built that—that suit, right? I’ve seen it on the news. You fly around the world like a jumped-up superhero vigilante?”  
  
“Iron Man,” replies Tony, ignoring the second question and brushing an imaginary bit of lint from McCoy’s lapel. McCoy knocks his hand away irritably. “I fly around the world  _fighting crime_ like a  _boss_.”  
  
“Stop touching me,” snaps McCoy. Tony grins at him and realises the man is  _blushing_. Oh gosh. How adorable.  
  
“You had a little something. There,” says Tony, shrugging guilelessly. He takes hold of McCoy’s slightly off-centre tie, adjusting the knot, and McCoy lets him, hands going to his sides in resignation as he rolls his eyes.  
  
“Air,” says McCoy dryly. “You brushed away some pesky oxygen. What do you  _want_?”  
  
“Me? I’d love to see what that suit looks like spread out on my floor,” Tony replies with a cocky smirk.  
  
As predicted, McCoy flushes all-the-way crimson, his expressive eyes widening. He’s got freckles, dusted across his nose and cheeks, and generous lips that part in surprise and annoyance as his eyebrows arch up. “You presumptive little shit,” sputters McCoy. “Is that a pick-up line? Do you actually get away with saying crap like that?”  
  
“Unfortunately, I do. I really do,” replies Tony earnestly.   
  
McCoy makes a face like he’s thrown up a little bit in his mouth. His palpable disgust is not a deal-breaker, just yet another hurdle to be overcome. “I need a drink,” he mutters.  
  
Tony allows a wide smile to spread across his face. “That can be arranged.”  
  
“I’m not sleeping with you,” retorts McCoy. He rubs his brow as if to ward off a gathering headache. “I know your type. Just so you know.”   
  
“Of course not,” says Tony. He sidles up to McCoy and settles a comfortable hand at the small of his back, guiding him inside the main reception hall. McCoy allows himself to be led, albeit reluctantly, his shoulders tense. “...Sleeping probably won’t be involved.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Leonard ultimately blames poor judgement and lowered inhibitions.   
  
Tony Stark is obnoxious, overly confident, slickly charming—he reminds Leonard just enough of Jim to allow himself to be taken in by Stark’s wide smiles and effortless suave attitude. As much as Leonard would like to believe he’s successfully built up the appropriate defenses after four years of knowing Jim and is by now immune to that soaring level of entitled charisma, this is not entirely true. It is in fact a blatant falsehood.  
  
He intends to have one glass of scotch.   
  
One glass, to soothe his nerves. Can’t hurt.   
  
After all, he’s currently trapped in another timeline, with no sure way to get home, recording a series of progressively more angry and panicked comm messages for Jim that he doesn’t actually think Jim will ever hear, and he is not too emotionally stunted to admit he’s shit-scared that he’ll be stuck here forever, left to live out his life lonely and hopeless and, most distressing of all, without Jim.   
  
“One drink,” he snaps at Stark. “And then I’m leaving. Because of reasons.”  
  
“Uh huh,” agrees Stark, signalling the bartender. “Sure thing, honey bear. So aside from winning Olympic gold at intense stares and crashing parties under a hilariously phony name, what do you do?”  
  
“Regret my life choices,” mutters Leonard, accepting a drink from the bartender with a nod. Stark is standing much too close in his expensive pinstriped suit, and he’s warm and smells of rich and spicy cologne. Leonard flushes uncomfortably and tries to ignore that Stark is really very attractive. He downs his scotch too quickly and holds up his hand for another.   
  
“Who’s Jim?” asks Stark, leaning up against the bar and watching Leonard. “Did he stand you up?”  
  
Leonard snorts into his drink and shoots Stark a sharp look. “Were you listening—? He’s... no, he’s my best friend. He was supposed to come and get me.”   
  
“Well, luckily you’ve got me, now,” says Stark. “I can take you home.”  
  
Swallowing hard around a mouthful of scotch, Leonard fixes his gaze on Stark. Jesus Christ. Leonard really is an idiot. There’s an idea. Everything he’s learned about Stark in the week he’s been stuck here does a slow-motion whirl through his fizzy thoughts and Leonard’s heart leaps. The whole reason he snuck into this stupid party in the first place was in the faint hope of getting a ticket to the upcoming Stark Expo and finding someone with enough technological expertise to help him get home, and now here he is talking to the man himself.   
  
“Maybe you can,” replies Leonard.   
  
About twenty minutes later, when two more glasses of scotch are sloshing around inside Leonard, Stark says, “What I’d really like to do is put my mouth on yours and maybe work some tongue in there if you’re amenable.”  
  
Later, Leonard has trouble remembering the content of his reply. Something enthusiastic and physical and sloppy. There aren’t clear details.  
  
What he  _does_  remember is leaving the fundraiser with Stark’s hand once again settled warmly on the small of his back, Leonard clinging desperately to the comfort of letting someone else lead for a while. He’s drunk, which is what makes it easier not to fret about what he’s doing; Stark is attractive and charming and ridiculous and that resemblance to Jim is just a little too strong.   
  
It’s too much. Leonard is only human and he’s been silently in love with his best friend for a long time.  
  
Leonard stumbles over his shoes when he kicks them off into Stark’s pristine bedroom and begins to shed his suit all over the floor exactly like he said he wouldn’t. It’s not the first time Leonard’s done something he said he wouldn’t do. It will definitely not be the last, because, after all, he is friends with Jim.   
  
“I was right,” says Stark from behind him. “That suit looks way better on the floor. Gosh, dumpling. You are  _fierce_.”   
  
Leonard kicks off his slacks and turns around, levelling a wobbly glare at Stark. “You can stop talking like that. I’ve already decided against my better judgement to have sex with you.”  
  
“What a revelatory turnaround,” says Stark. “I absolutely did not predict this outcome.” He starts undoing his cuff-links, shedding his suit piece by piece, and Leonard is momentarily fixated on the taut tan skin and well-defined muscles being revealed, pausing in the midst of undoing his own fly.   
  
“Don’t gloat,” Leonard says sourly. “It’s unattractive.”  
  
Stark winks at him and drops his trousers. “Like what you see?”  
  
“What the hell is on your underwear?” demands Leonard. “Is that—”  
  
“Iron Man?” interrupts Stark. “Yes.” He moves into Leonard’s personal space, hands wandering over his arms and chest, exploratory and faintly reverent. Leonard’s skin prickles warmly under the attention, unsure what Stark is seeing. Long, agile fingers trace a scar from Leonard’s clavicle all the way down to his abdomen, a remnant of a particular bad day that involved several angry Klingons and a weapon which Jim later told him, eyes solemn and voice soft, was called a  _bat’leth_.  
  
“But  _you’re_ Iron Man,” sputters Leonard, ignoring the questioning look in Stark’s brown eyes. “You’re wearing your own face on your underwear?”  
  
“No,” says Stark. He cups Leonard’s chin, tilts it down to compensate for the handful of inches Leonard has on Stark, and kisses him hard on the mouth. He pulls back and smiles white and blinding into Leonard’s dazed face. “I’m wearing my  _armour’s_ face on my underwear.”  
  
“Because that’s somehow better,” snorts Leonard. Stark nips him on the lower lip and then places both palms flat on Leonard’s chest and shoves him backwards onto the giant bed.   
  
“You talk a lot,” says Stark, crawling over Leonard’s splayed legs to straddle his hips.   
  
“So do you,” retorts Leonard, flustered by the way his body’s response to the pressure of Stark’s body is for his cock to immediately fill and harden. He smothers a groan and rocks his hips up.   
  
Stark cups Leonard’s erection through his boxers and squeezes. “I think you like it.”  
  
“And I think you’re full of sh—” Stark leans over Leonard, cutting him off with a palm pressed over his mouth. Leonard scowls, grunting irritably, and Stark grins blithely in response, his hand slipping inside Leonard’s boxers to fist his cock.   
  
Leonard is lost on the first stroke.  
  


oOo

  
  
By the time Tony has reduced McCoy to helpless sobs and patiently made him come over his fist, his own cock is flushed and aching.   
  
McCoy’s chest is stained a pretty pink, lungs rising and falling in hitching breaths as he comes down from his orgasm. He blinks wide hazel eyes at the ceiling and lets his legs fall open. “Where did my shorts go?” mumbles McCoy. “I didn’t even notice you taking them off.”  
  
“I don’t know,” says Tony. He stretches to snag the lube off the bedside table, dropping it between McCoy’s lax thighs, and then makes a return trip for a condom. “Does it matter? They’re not going back on yet. I would really love to see what you look like stretched around my dick. Just so we’re honest.”  
  
“Fuck,” groans McCoy, lifting up a clumsy hand to thread through his tangled bangs. “What is it with people like you and the crap you get away with saying?”  
  
Tony scoots closer between McCoy’s legs and lifts one of his thighs encouragingly. McCoy grumbles and tucks his ankles around Tony’s waist, his eyes darkening and his spent cock twitching in weary interest. When Tony has exposed the pink clutch of his hole he coats two fingers in lube and strokes McCoy’s perineum until the other man is squirming and sighing, his ass clenching reflexively. Then, when McCoy’s eyes fix on his in silent entreaty, Tony glides both fingers slowly inside.  
  
“Easy,” he murmurs as McCoy inhales sharply, breath catching. Tony continues stroking in and out with just his fingertips until McCoy relaxes, tension releasing from his shoulders and spine. McCoy bucks his hips when Tony finds his prostate and moans outright when he adds a third finger; if Tony didn’t think McCoy would kill him for trying, he’d capture the debauched picture McCoy makes with his hair falling damp over his forehead and his lower lip bitten red and swollen, cock hardening again between the tempting spread of his legs.  
  
Nothing really whacky happens until Tony slides his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets, reaching for the condom, and McCoy raises his head to see what he’s doing. McCoy’s expressive eyebrows crumple into a confused frown as he watches Tony tear open the packet.   
  
“What the fuck are you—”  
  
Then Tony pinches the tip of the condom and rolls it onto his cock and McCoy’s eyes go shiny and round like he’s just witnessed an honest-to-god miracle. “Are you using a condom?” says McCoy, in a tone of complete awe. “An actual condom? It is, it’s a  _condom_.” There’s something like giddy excitement in his voice.   
  
Tony raises an eyebrow. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen one before,” he says reproachfully. “Oh  _god_. Please tell me you haven’t got all the possible kinds of cock rot human beings are capable of catching.”  
  
McCoy’s eyes flicker up to Tony’s and his expression makes the split-second jump from amazed to horrified. “What? No,  _no_ , I’m—I’m clean. I use condoms. I use condoms all the time. Sometimes I—even use two,” he says lamely, clearly not having thought that line of conversation all the way through. “I’ve just never seen one so...big.”  
  
“You’re lucky that sort of thing actually works on me,” says Tony. “And that you have such a fine ass.”  
  
“I don’t have any diseases,” insists McCoy. “And do you honestly think a little sleeve of latex will  _really_  protect you from—”  
  
“You need to stop talking again, Leo,” interrupts Tony, gripping McCoy’s hips, nudging the head of his cock against McCoy’s stretched hole, and silencing him with a slow, deep, punishing thrust.  
  
McCoy groans thickly, hips arching up, bearing down on Tony’s cock, and his eyes slide closed. Tony fucks into him with tiny, shallow rolls of his hips until his balls are snug against the curve of McCoy’s ass, and then he stops, bracing himself over McCoy, hands planted on either side of his head.   
  
“Good?” he asks.   
  
“Better when you’re moving,” hisses McCoy, clutching at Tony’s arms and squirming, his ankles locking tight around Tony’s waist.  
  
Tony chuckles, and with a slow, deliberate grind of his hips, he settles into the challenge of screwing McCoy into pliant incoherency.  
  


oOo

  
  
Leonard wakes with a twinge in his ass and a pleasantly-accented male voice in his ears calmly delivering the date, current headlines, and the day’s predicted weather.   
  
For a moment, Leonard just remains perfectly still, one eye open, staring along the rumpled bed sheets, past the edge of the mattress and out into the Pacific ocean. The bedroom in daylight has revealed itself to be panelled entirely in windows, and Leonard is looking at clear blue sky and deep waters.   
  
Then, he belatedly realises that while he’s accustomed to being spoken to by computers, he is no longer  _in_  the 23rd century, so  _where the fuck is that voice coming from?_    
  
Leonard sits up abruptly and looks around.   
  
“Hello?” he demands. There’s no one in the room. Not only is he lost in a past where cars still run on gasoline and doctors gleefully cut people open, he’s also lost his goddamn mind. “...Computer?”  
  
“My name is JARVIS, Mr. McCoy,” replies the voice. Leonard directs a suspicious gaze up at the ceiling, scrubbing a hand through his hopelessly rumpled hair.  
  
“But you  _are_ a computer,” says Leonard.  
  
“Yes,” replies JARVIS. “I control the house. Mr. Stark programmed my AI. Mr. Stark’s assistant, Miss Potts, has had your clothing pressed and dry-cleaned. It is hanging on the back of the door. When you are dressed, Mr. Stark requested I direct you down to his workshop.”  
  
“Don’t watch me get out of bed,” mutters Leonard before he can stop himself.  
  
“I don’t have eyes,” says JARVIS.  
  
“But you have cameras, I bet,” Leonard replies, dragging half the sheets off the bed with him as he pads gingerly over to the bag hanging from the back of the bedroom door. “And  _sensors_.”  
  
“Yes,” replies JARVIS, “And so, based on security footage, I already know what you look like nude, Mr. McCoy.” There is a long pause. “And that you are extremely vocal during intercourse.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Tony has his head stuck inside the engine of a 1964 corvette when McCoy’s voice, rough from sleep, growls, “Your computer is a complete smartass.”  
  
“ _Motherfucker_ ,” yelps Tony, smacking his forehead. “Ow!” Carefully extricating his body from the hood of the car, Tony rubs his skull, giving McCoy a theatrical pout he suspects will have little to no effect on the frown currently pasted on McCoy’s face. He’s right.   
  
McCoy is wearing his slacks and dress shirt from last night, though the shirt remains un-tucked and is buttoned haphazardly, and there’s a furrow to his brow. “I’ll just be getting out of your way, then,” he says uncomfortably. “But I think something got misplaced when... your assistant cleaned my clothes. It was in the pocket of my jacket.”  
  
“Mm,” hums Tony, walking to his workbench and picking up a rag to wipe the grease off his hands. “Oh yeah?”  
  
“Yes,” says McCoy tightly. His mouth is pinched and he looks like he’s keeping a tight lid on a potential tantrum. “A device.”  
  
“You mean this,” says Tony, taking the palm-sized silver object out of his pocket and holding it up. “What is it, anyway?”  
  
McCoy’s eyes widen a little and his eyebrows rise. “A...portable telephone. Obviously.”  
  
“Uh huh,” says Tony, flipping it open and examining the gleaming round screen inside. “The word you’re looking for is ‘cellular,’ sugar crisp.”  
  
“Tony,” says McCoy, holding his hand out. There is carefully-controlled panic on his face. Tony is pretty sure this is the first time McCoy has called him by his first name. Must be important. “Please give it back.”  
  
“Is it working?” asks Tony. “I couldn’t get it to do anything. I think there’s a problem with...whatever is meant to transmit the signal. It  _is_  basically a cell phone, right?”  
  
McCoy stays silent, fingers clenching into fists.  
  
“If it’s broken, maybe I can help fix it,” says Tony slowly. “Isn’t that what you were hoping for? That I could take you home?”  
  
All at once, the tension seeps out of McCoy, and his shoulders slump back into their natural hunch. “That’s not the only reason I let you pick me up,” says McCoy quietly.   
  
Tony gives him a smirk. “I know. So where’s home?”  
  
McCoy stiffens. “You won’t believe me,” he says in a low voice.  
  
“Try me. What have you got to lose?”  
  
“The 23rd century,” says McCoy after a moment of hesitation, his face pained. “It won’t transmit properly because it doesn’t use conventional radio waves. My crew could probably pick up my broadcast if they were somewhere here on earth with me, but I’m not a physicist or an engineer. I got no idea how to get the damn subspace transceiver to work through space  _and_ time.”  
  
“Well,” says Tony, “You’re lucky I’m a physicist  _and_ an engineer. And a genius. What  _do_  you do, space man?”  
  
“I’m a doctor,” McCoy responds, watching Tony work apart the panels on his communicator in horror. “Jesus  _Christ_ , what are you—”  
  
“Relax,” soothes Tony, laying out the pieces on his work table. “JARVIS, gimme a scan of this puppy. I need to know exactly what I’m working with. We’ve got a time traveller to send home.”  
  


oOo

  
  
The tiny little flip-phone is absolutely stuffed with technology so elegant and stream-lined Tony could honestly just cream his fucking pants. “Are you sure I can’t keep this?” he asks for the tenth time, looking up at McCoy and pushing his goggles up to his forehead. McCoy is sitting perched on Tony’s sofa, watching television with a bewildered frown on his face. “You’ve probably got them in bulk, right?”  
  
“What? Of course you can’t. First of all, my captain would kill me, and second of all, I would probably get discharged from the ‘fleet for sheer carelessness,” snaps McCoy, turning the full force of his scowl on Tony. “It’s bad enough that I’ve told you this much.”  
  
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” says Tony, winking at McCoy. “Did you fall through a hole in the space-time continuum?”  
  
“Transporter malfunction,” mutters McCoy, with more restrained vitriol in his voice than Tony has ever heard a human being produce. “What else?”  
  
“I need to boost the signal,” announces Tony, straightening up and flexing his shoulders. “It’s broadcasting. I’m picking up bits and pieces of transmissions. No idea what they are, but it seems like someone is trying to get in contact with you. But you’re right, you’re out of sync by two centuries.”  
  
“Do you even have compatible technology?” asks McCoy doubtfully.   
  
Tony ignores him. He’s pretty sure that he can piggy-back a signal on one of NASA’s satellites long enough to transmit McCoy’s coordinates into the right subspace wavelength. It’s a bit like shouting into the ether, but it’s worth a shot.   
  
Hopefully NASA won’t notice.   
  


oOo

  
  
Rescue, when it comes, arrives in the unspectacular form of a blond man in a yellow shirt abruptly falling out of a cloud of static and a technicolour burst of lights onto the floor of Tony’s workshop.  
  
“Booya!” says Tony, at the same time that McCoy cries, “ _JIM_!” and does a flying leap over the back of the couch to reach the man now picking himself up off the floor and brushing frantically at his sizzling uniform. Jim coughs sparks and blinks dazedly at McCoy, eyes widening right before McCoy thumps into him and sweeps him into a crushing hug.   
  
“Bones!” wheezes Jim. His arms come up around McCoy’s broad shoulders, hugging him back just as tightly. “ _Bones_.”  
  
For a moment, they just stand enfolded in each other’s arms, and then they part like startled cats and start  _arguing_ —  
  
“How do these things always happen to you?” demands Jim, smacking McCoy on the shoulder.   
  
“ _Me_?” snarls McCoy, jabbing a finger at his own chest. “Maybe you should ask your chief engineer why his precious transporters insist on dumping passengers in endless variations of the  _wrong_ bits of time and space? Or have you forgotten the universe containing our evil twins? And that brilliant time we had in revolutionary France? How about—”  
  
“There was a temporal anomaly,” interrupts Jim, waving a dismissive hand. “...Or an ion storm. I dunno, pick one, it’s equally likely.”  
  
“I hate you,” says McCoy feelingly. “I hate you and all the things you choose to be. Please tell me our crackpot crew actually knows how to  _retrieve_ us and you haven’t just stranded yourself here with me.”  
  
“Yeah, that would be bad, huh,” agrees Jim. “Nah. We’re good to go. Everything is a-okay and under control.” His sharp blue gaze manages to tear itself away from McCoy long enough to fix on where Tony is standing and watching the show.  
  
“I thought about going to get some popcorn,” says Tony, strolling up to stand beside McCoy. He doesn’t miss the flush that begins to creep across McCoy’s nose and cheeks. “But I didn’t want to miss anything. That was  _adorable_.”  
  
“Jim,” says McCoy. “This is Tony Stark. He—”  
  
“—transmitted the modified subspace signal we picked up,” nods Jim. “No offense, Bones, but that was some tricky, delicate shit. I figured you probably didn’t pull it off yourself.”  
  
McCoy makes a face. “I’m a doctor, not—”  
  
“—a puppy?” cuts in Jim. “A bag of fertilizer? Oh, oh, I know, a banana?”  
  
“ _Hate you_ ,” says McCoy heatedly, ignoring the fact that Tony has started laughing so hard he’s pretty sure he’s going to wet himself. “So much.”  
  
Jim grins and winks at McCoy and his flush deepens. Then Jim turns to Tony and holds out his hand for a rather professional shake.   
  
“Thank you for taking care of him,” Jim says earnestly. “Bones, when you’re ready. I’ll give you a minute.” He extracts his own communication device from his belt and walks off a few feet, turning his back on Tony and McCoy.  
  
“Your captain?” says Tony to McCoy.   
  
McCoy’s dark gaze has softened fondly and his eyes are fixed on Jim. “My idiot captain.”  
  
“And your best friend,” adds Tony. He pauses. “ _Just_  your best friend?”  
  
“Yes,” says McCoy hurriedly, giving Tony a quick glare. “Yes, goddammit. That’s it. We’ve never... and we’re not...”  
  
“Uh huh,” says Tony doubtfully. “Sure thing, muffin. You haven’t got feelings for him at  _all_. All that unresolved sexual tension might just give me the vapours. Jimbo is just as desperate to get inside your pants as you are to invite him in there, believe me. Watch this.”  
  
“What?” says McCoy worriedly. “Watch what? Tony, please don’t—”  
  
“I guess it’s good bye, then, Leo!” says Tony, deliberately raising his voice. Jim glances over his shoulder just in time to see Tony grab McCoy and plant a hard kiss on his lips. He hugs him theatrically, thwacking him hard on the back, and then shoves him over to Jim with a firm smack on the ass.   
  
McCoy stumbles a few steps and then straightens up, glaring red-faced at Tony over his shoulder before he stops at Jim’s side, brushing his clothes off unnecessarily and staring pointedly at the floor.   
  
Meanwhile, Jim is looking at Tony with burning eyes, mouth pursed in a tight line, jealous and concerned and ferociously possessive. He nods sharply at Tony and then takes McCoy’s hand firmly in his.   
  
“Tony,” says McCoy. “I... thank you. For taking me home.”  
  
“Thank  _you_ ,” leers Tony, waving them off cheerfully.   
  
McCoy sputters. “You  _son of a_ —”   
  
His huffy tirade is blessedly interrupted by the crackle of sound and light folding together as he and Jim disappear with a puff of smoke and the sharp smell of ozone.   
  
Tony crosses his arms proudly over his chest and smiles. “Well,” he says aloud. “That was a productive day. I guess I can cross  _fuck a time traveller_  off my bucket list.”  
  
“You can also remove  _play match-maker_ ,” supplies JARVIS helpfully.  
  
“Ooh. Yeah. Update the list for me, will you, JARVIS?”  
  
“Of course, sir.”  
  
Tony rubs his hands together and looks around his workshop. “I really wish he’d let me keep that futuristic cell phone.”  
  
“Then I suppose it is fortunate that I took the liberty of saving the scan you had me make into my database, Mr. Stark,” JARVIS says.  
  
“Oh, JARVIS,” replies Tony, grinning widely. “You devious little minx. If you had lips, I would kiss you.”  
  
“Shall I transfer the details to your console?”  
  
“Oh,  _please do_. Have I ever told you that you’re my favourite creation?”  
  
“It never hurts to hear it again, sir.”


End file.
